The Unabridged Journals of Karissa Gupta

  I loved you as Icarus loved the sun. I read this quote on my Pinterest board a few months back, and while it may have left the landscape of my phone’s screen, it left an indelible inscription within the jumble that I call my mind. Reading this quote at first glance implies the archetype of the clichéd metaphor of Icarus, a man whose growing thirst for glory brought him down, his greed being mightier than the endurance of his wings. But the classicalism that controls my mind made my imagination rake over these words countless times, ultimately metamorphosing me into Icarus, seeing traces of my soul in a phrase coined to capture his ironic fall from the skies.  I loved you like Icarus loved the sun.  Knowing that you would eventually be my unraveling, I still chose to seek momentary solace by basking in your warmth. Self-destructive? Or maybe just clinically insane. Or maybe the Greeks were right when they said that beauty is terror; whatever we call beautiful, we...

When someone asks me what my favourite genre is, I get lost within the intermingled thoughts weaving knots in my mind, pondering over the formation of an articulate term to convey the type of literary works that gnaw at my very soul. The only connecting thread is that all literary works centre around hyper-intellectual, eccentric characters, embarking upon quests fuelled by their idiosyncrasies, which are inexplicable and unfathomable for the common folk. The archetype for this literary niche is none other than the ‘Underground Man’, whose narrative voice Fyodor Dostoevsky writes from in ‘Notes from Underground’.  ‘Notes from Underground’, is a limited omniscient novella written by Fyodor Dostoevsky, centring around the narrative perspective of an anti-hero, with the moniker, the ‘Underground Man’, his true identity being anonymous. While the narrator never explicitly reveals his name, the lack of a proper name emphasizes his disconnect from personal identity and his self-imposed ...

Emotions. When this word used to pop into my mind, I typically rendered it to be black and white. I believed that feelings were simple, one was either overjoyed or heartbroken. One was either jealous or proud. One was either ecstatic or petrified. However, my mind has now strung together the complexities associated with emotions, and their often imbricating manifestations and juxtapositional natures. While many perceive emotions to be individual feelings that coarse through one, in actuality, they often amalgamate with one another, causing one to feel crashes of emotional waves thrashing all at once, the emotions rippling over each other, confuddling one’s mind. The quote below perfectly encapsulates my newfound epiphany regarding the true nature of emotions and how they cascade over each other, fringing upon foreign atmospheres. And of course, it's a quote from the book that’s changed a million things in my life in addition to my outlook on my emotions, the one and only masterpiec...

  Death and regret seem to be two dependent words, don’t they? Whenever an ominous gray cloud envelops my mind, and rakes my thoughts onto the tingling notion of death and what lies beyond it, I'm left with involuntary shudders that rattle every nerve of my body. As thoughts of death overpower all feelings of rationality, I can’t help but wonder, what is it that I will regret when I have no time left to rectify my wrongs? When my clock will run out, what is it for which I will wish I had just a few more seconds? When the chapter of my life closes, what parts will I wish to whiten out? These questions often sweep through my overwhelmed mind, rendering me anxious as I grapple with the acceptance of the fact that the sands of time keep trickling through the crevices between my fingertips.  These notions of mine were swiftly overturned when I read the masterpiece that is better known as, He Never Expected Much. Written by Thomas Hardy, this poem is an antithesis of the traditional...

  As I sat on my desk with my legs lazily sprawled over my chair and random locks of hair loosely falling all over my face, I ritualistically wrote clusters of words onto a document and then promptly deleted them all with just a single click- every single time. This cycle drove me to the verge of insanity, resulting in my head throbbing with pain and my Hail Mary being a strip of crocin. I slapped my cheeks countless times, stared at my screen with a murderous intent and even wrote an entire piece only to realise that though the words were mine, the emotions weren’t. And I thought to myself, what good is a piece if it doesn’t reflect a part of my soul which had been previously hidden away, tucked beneath the surface, only to be glimpsed on occasion when the mask I wore slipped away momentarily . While I cascaded into a session of self critique and intense contemplation over my sudden inability to express through words, it hit me. I realised that the complexity of the theme ‘family...

  As I cerebrated upon the theme for this edition of the Network, my forehead morphed into wrinkled lines as my eyebrows furrowed up, due to the lack of evocation in my mind. I strained my tightening constraints, coercing my subconscious to lurch into its depths and unearth a glimmering thread lit up by my memories. However, my efforts were in vain as the only recollection of bedtime stories I could uncover was when my parents read stories to me. One vivid memory sparked my mind, but that’s it. All I could envision were blurry figures of my mom and I sleeping on her bed in our old home, as she read The Magic Faraway Tree to me, and I pleaded, “one more chapter please!”, engrossed within the fictional realm of moon-face and silky the fairy. Falling asleep in my mother’s arms as she patiently narrated the enchanting tales of the magic faraway tree, is what I thought my childhood’s bedtime stories were limited to. I falsely fell prey to the misconception spurred within the chambers of...

  “ We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering- these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love- these are what we stay alive for.”  - The Dead Poets Society, 1989  If the phrase ‘art for art’s entire essence had to be succinctly encapsulated, this quote above would be the only way to do so. Literature, music, paintings, fashion and films are all forms of art. And the intricate strands of threads that weave together seamlessly to create the beauty of the art forms we marvel at- lyrics, words, streaks of paint and clips that freeze moments in time- have a simple yet confounding purpose. And what is that? It is to allow us human beings to pour our quintessential fibres out, transforming  our essence, our cores from amalgamations of the cells that make us up, into tangible ...

  I must admit, I was fleetingly tempted to conceal the truth with layers of pretentious fabrications. However, it is not only against the inherent trademarks of a writer, but also physically impossible for me to illustrate a setting that is even remotely disparate with reality for secretly, my soul flutters with glee at the absurdity that peppers my life. After all, what is a writer if not mad? As Bukowski said, “ I'm not like an ordinary world. I have my madness, I live in another dimension and I do not have time for things that have no soul .”  And what is my madness? My madness is limitless, seamlessly enrapturing my senses wholly. Yet, it is ironically perfectly encapsulated within this quote.  “Does such a thing as 'the fatal flaw,' that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside of literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.” As I frantically p...

 At initial musings, ‘comfort’ appears to be a momentary emotion that envelops us shortly, briefly numbing our pain and suffering. It is often perceived as a goal, one that needs to be attained through disciplined practices aimed at soothing the body and soul. However, I’ve now come to realise that comfort is so much more than just an intangible yearning. It can be manifested into a concrete place, person or even an experience. A mere thought which instantly incinerates all worries with its fiery warmth, fueled from nostalgic reminisce. Comfort is drinking my hundredth cup of black coffee from the same ceramic mug every day, making the same satisfied “ahhh” sound  as the piping hot fluids race to my brain, instantaneously easing it with ripples of peace Comfort is wearing a purple beaded bracket on my wrist and thinking of Ananya, for she too wears its replica on hers. Comfort is nestling underneath layers of soft blankets, laying submerged as waves of calm crash over my subco...

Crimson sparks shooting through my bursting veins, flames mercilessly erupting from every fibre of my being, churning my mind into an endless abyss, anger and resentment being my sole companions. Whenever I let my emotions overpower me, whenever I succumb to the mighty forces of my crippling ego, whenever I fall to my knees before the haunting shadows within, the same words always cascade upon me like relentless rocks. The same five words are hurled at me, tackling the exploding animosity with a splash of cooling serenity, stabilising the broken pieces of my mind’s constitutional parts. My mother, the greatest symbol for tranquillity and peace, always tells me “Hate is a strong word.” Younger me always rolled her eyes when she heard these words for what felt like the millionth time. But now, it dawns upon me that my mother was right (don’t tell her). She always knew, and what I now realise, the complexity and multifaceted nature of the word ‘hate’. Hate is intricate, interwoven with a ...

 Dearest readers,  I’ve delved into countless fictional realms, plots and relationships. Yet, I’ve mostly steered clear from the most important tale of all, the tale of m life and how individual events accumulated together and finally culminated into the creation of this blog. Before i get not my entire life story, let me give you the basics. My name is Karissa, a Greek word which means love and grace. I am currently an 11th grader, studying the IBDP curriculum (lord save me). If i had to describe myself in just a few words I would say, confident, passionate and just the right amount of inane. As this is a blog, my introduction wouldn’t be complete without me talking about my favourite pieces of literature. If you haven’t been able to tell, The Secret History by Donna Tart is a novel that is so close to my heart that I have countless copies of it and i refuse to leave the house without a copy in my bag. “It is better to know one book intimately than a thousand superficially”, ...

Friedrich Nietzsche once wisely said, “ A young man cannot possibly know what Greeks and Romans are. He doesn't know whether he is suited for finding out about them.”    To sum up an intricate journey full of madness, idiosyncrasies and frankly, borderline sociopathic behaviour, let me just say, I have a profound desire to reverse the ticks of the clock which my ears have already heard, and magically engrain these words of Nietzsche into the abyss of my mind, igniting the much needed realisation that an obsession with the classics is akin to selling your soul to the devil. It seizes control over your life, clawing into your brain and, ensnaring your mind, relentlessly forcing it back to the same thing over and over again, no matter how hard you try, only one era runs through your subconscious, while you sleep, while you breathe and even while you lie on the ground perfectly still, intertwining with the soil and reaching another dimension that lies amidst the heavenly tapestri...